Strangers in the garden

I have had an ongoing list of “must have” plants adding up in my head for a number of years now. Sometimes I write it down in whatever gardening journal I am using at the time. There are always a few that are truly so ingrained in my gardening psyche  that they reappear from list to list, and then there are some that show up once–forgotten or purposefully left out as I discover other species or cultivars that are more appealing/less guilt inducing.

How, you may ask, could a plant be guilt inducing? There are the obvious reasons: price, practicality, water consumption. The reason that is most prevalent for me these days (although the other reasons probably tie in) is whether or not the plant is native to this region. Let me share with you an example from our garden.

Russian Olive

That tree leaning drunkenly due east (I have since staked it in a more upright position!)  has been on my ‘wanted’ list for years. What other tree in Edmonton keeps its leaves so long? What could provide such slender, silver movement in the slightest wind. What else could transport me momentarily to the sun soaked, olive laden, Tuscan countryside faster? And no, the Elaeagnus angustifolia is not even remotely native to Alberta. Or the prairies. Or even North America. In fact, it is on some lists as an invasive plant in this province. But I planted it, just the same.

The majority of perennials and shrubs chosen for the front yard were originally taken into consideration because they are indigenous to the  region, or at least the Prairies, but some I couldn’t/didn’t resist. My question is: does it matter?

What if I am introducing a plant that will send its offspring into the nearby ravine and proceed to choke out native plants that are struggling to survive in a landscape bombarded by human traffic and pollution? Am I responsible for safeguarding the spectrum of flora found in the context I live in? Am I obligated to garden in a way that is authentic for this geographical location?

I had to have a Russian Olive. Will I regret it when its nitrogen-fixing tendencies choke out the perennials I planted hopefully at its feet (how accurate are those biologist doomsayers anyways?) ?

What plants are you willing to break your own rules for?

As a quick aside, today I was trying to repair patches of heat damage on our dining room table with a paste of salt and olive oil (totally did not work!) and rather than waste the leftovers, gave my hands a quick exfoliating scrub with it…Wowzas!  When summer rolls around again (and it will–note to self) this will be a go-to gardening-hands repair solution. Although it may not be the best choice during the cracked-open cuticles portion of the summer, it left my hands moisturized and significantly less sandpapery than before. Which my children appreciate.

Where to start?

I like plants. This was not always the case. I remember being recruited for marigold duty–my mom’s attempts to protect her potager in a small mountain town in south-western Alberta–and resenting the job. Stories still circulate about my wandering-alley-cat rows of carrots. Moving to a new subdivision in Edmonton inspired me to tear out sod and with the advice of a friend, I added a mini brick pathway and mixed every bargain perennial I loved in a north-facing, mostly shaded front yard. What did flourish (and much of it–who knows how or why!–did) must have been a total fluke. I would like to say I have learned from my past efforts and have humbly come to accept that I was barely on the novice rung, and then post a picture of that first little bed, but it may take a few runs at it to get up the nerve. On second thought, maybe now, when so few people can find me, is the best time to confess visually! Here goes.

First attempt at perennial beds

We are now living in a house in a more mature part of the city, just off of the River Valley trail system. Eight months ago, we found ourselves homeless and decided to move into a place my husband had been renovating for his business. Thrilled with a healthy-sized south-facing front yard, I started the landscaping daydreaming while we were firmly entrenched in the snow of last winter (you remember, if you lived in the area. The one that seemed unending, no promise of thaw or green in sight for months and months). We decided to fall plant our perennials, shrubs, and trees, and seeds, which left us lots of time to plan our Prairie oasis, but had no inkling that the torrential rains of June were about to force our hand.

Which they did. With a drywall-soaking, underlay-disintegrating, wainscotting-saturating vengeance (Yes, our basement was refinished. Yes, we will be re-refinishing it). And, in order to prevent this heartbreaking cycle from reoccurring, we realized a serious regrading was in order. Sad and lovely all at the same time. Here was my blank slate. I called in the experts. Brainstorming with friends (especially a very gifted Carrie) and family, we came up with plan. Here it is, the original master draft (of the front yard at least).

And this is the dirt. With a bit of green.

Clay and dirt and sand. Best playground ever.

The question was, how to make the latter photo into the former master plan. So, having learned from my first attempt (see photograph #1), I headed to the fountain of gardening knowledge (another learning moment–books are super, talking to plant people ie. trained greenhouse/nursery staff = awesome), the EPL. I borrowed so many library books, I had to get a new card.

That may have had more to do with the time my card spent in the library parking lot before I realized it was no longer in my wallet than overuse. But I did; I borrowed, and I read. I maxed out my card. I maxed out my son’s card. I am thinking about getting my  baby his own, so I have a third option, just in case (plus you get a free book for your infant when s/he becomes a card carrying library goer!). I’m not sure I should be publishing how I use library cards publicly…

So began the process of learning how to design a garden. I am still on the novice rung. And as in any discipline, the more I learn, the more I realize I want/ need to learn. How do you plan your growing space? Are you structured? Free-for-all? A combination? Do you start with colour? Hardscape? Plants you love? How did you learn to do what you do in the garden? Experiment? Reading? Lectures? Family wisdom?

On a side note, and to wrap up–I fell in love. I will reserve an entire post on this subject, but I would like to leave you with a nod to the person who has forever changed how I see gardening. His name is Piet Oudolf and whether or not you enjoy his style, whether or not you agree with his practices, there is something worthwhile in spending a moment to take in what decades of plantophilia can create. I leave you with this link--a winter landscape to catch the breath .

waiting for spring

We were away for a wedding this weekend, and on returning discovered we have more snow in Edmonton than when we left. I honestly had the thought last week that it was a pity there wasn’t more of the stuff on the ground. For someone who sees winter’s sole purpose as a time for plants to rest so they can do their thing come warmer weather, I struck myself as being strangely out of character. And I got my wish.

And so begins ‘Letting it Grow’. I am trying to fulfill the white void that 6 months of snow creates with a cyber greening. If I reflect on the past summer and daydream about the one to come, there is some gardening joy to be found, even when mine is lying dormant and leafless. I write this inaugural post in hopes that I can connect with/learn from/be inspired by those of you who are in the same proverbial boat–all of us waiting for the first signs that we will soon be digging and bending, hauling and coaxing.

But until then, I offer my sadly un-green thumb and its accompanying fingers in a virtual shake of hope. The next post will be the story of our first steps in creating a space for plants around our home. Tell me yours. Give me green.